


Daufuskie

by rei_c



Series: Different People in Alternate Places [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Azazel's Special Children, Demons, F/M, Gullah, Kidnapping, M/M, Magic, Multi, Original Character(s), Road Trips, Threesome - F/M/M, sea islands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 12:32:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4263399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets sent on an errand to pick up a book down South. What he finds is something far more important -- something that demons have been trying to get their hands on as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> I was lucky enough to have been chosen by Ely, who created some amazing pieces of art to go with this story. Thank you so much for applying your creativity and enthusiasm to my little ol' story -- it's been wonderful to work with you!
> 
> Many thanks to Zana for the beta and the mods of the spn_j2_bigbang, for organising this whole mess and keeping track of the chaos. I don't know how you manage to do it year after year and make it look so easy, but you are all wonderful. 
> 
> \--
> 
> Sea and land may lie between us, but my heart is always there with you.
> 
> -Nancy Brewer, _Letters from Lizzie_  
> 

They come in the night. Dean thinks CPS at first, then local cops, then maybe both. They're quiet, they have guns, and Dean can see the building super in the doorway; the old guy's standing there, hands in his pockets like he wants to stop this but can't.

It's not until they brush past him, dozing on the couch and waiting for their father to get home, and go into Sam's room that Dean realises: the black eyes aren't a trick of the light.

The last thing Dean sees is his brother kicking, fighting them with everything he has. The last thing he hears, before they knock him out, is his brother.

Sam is screaming.

\--

Dean opens his eyes. His father's face is the first thing he sees; John looks worried, corners of his eyes and mouth pinched.

"Dean?"

"Demons," Dean whispers, lifting a hand to his throat. It hurts, hurts like _he'd_ been the one screaming instead of Sam. Dean tries to sit up, collapses back to the bed as he babbles and cries like he hasn't in years, since he was little, before Sam and Mom and the fire. "Demons took Sam. I didn't know, Dad, I swear I didn't. _Demons_ , Dad."

John nods. "I know."

Dean blinks. "How," he starts to say, then descends into a coughing fit. Speaking makes his throat feel like someone's rubbing sandpaper right on his nerves, like maybe he's been swallowing nails. His father helps him drink from a thermos next to the bed; there's a straw poking out of the top, looks bitten into and barely held together. Dean ignores the strong smell of alcohol enough to bite the straw when he sips and his teeth fit in the grooves perfectly.

"Slow," John murmurs. He has one hand cupped at the back of Dean's neck, the other holding the thermos. Dean meets his father's eyes, has to turn away from the expression he sees hiding in their depths. John looks furious but also as if he's a moment away from breaking, just like the straw.

"How did you know?" Dean asks, looking down at the thin motel comforter, picking at a hole that Sam had pointed out the night they -- the night he -- the last time Dean was awake. "How, Dad, I don't."

John shakes his head, takes the thermos away and has a long swallow himself, ignoring the straw to chug the whiskey straight down. "It's been three days, Dean."

Dean's stomach bottoms out and he barely has time to lean over the side of the bed before he's vomiting.

Three days. Three days without Sam, three days of Sam being kidnapped by _demons_ , and they're still here. He's still here and Dad, Dad's not out hunting for his little brother.

"We have to go," Dean says, wiping his mouth on his arm once he's done throwing up. "We have to find Sam."

"We will," John says. "I promise."


	2. Act One

"Just get your ass down south," John says, "and get that goddamn book before our hold runs out and someone else is there to snatch it up." John ends the call with that. 

Dean shoves his phone into his back pocket and stares up at the sky for a good two minutes, counting to one hundred first in English, then Spanish, then Latin. His heart starts to slow, calming to its normal rhythm, as he ruthlessly pushes down the anger in his gut. He's used to doing this, as much as he hates it, and later he'll find someone warm and willing to bury himself in or he'll get into a bar fight or he'll get to kill some monster. There are benefits to this life and his dad loves him, worries about him, Dean knows, but sometimes that's not enough. Sometimes he hates his father. 

With a stretch and one last deep inhale and exhale, Dean slides back behind the wheel of the Impala and gets back on the road. He's not sure what the big deal about this book is, except that his dad's heard it's crazy powerful and there might be monsters or hunters less scrupulous than the Winchesters after it. That's generally a good enough reason for Dean to do anything; he loves getting one up on the supernatural freaks that play at being human and if the book's as important as his dad thinks it is, better it be in their hands or their locker than any other hunter's. 

His dad hasn't said much about it, though, not even the name of it, and that makes something in Dean sit up and take notice. He wishes it didn't because while Dean takes it as a point of pride that he doesn't trust anyone, this is a sign that he doesn't even trust his own father anymore.

"And ain't that a damn shame," Dean mutters, turning on Metallica as he hits the state highway. 

\--

He's made it to the Georgia state line by the time he starts thinking about stopping for the night. It's past too late and into too early, the only other light out here the rare street-lamp and even rarer porch light left on overnight. It's his own kind of rebellion, something his father will never know about; Dean could have been on the outskirts of Savannah by now but he stuck to the state roads rather than the interstate. He's only made it this far, getting a room at a cheap hotel in Chatsworth, Georgia, and jogging across the road to get some food at the one and only place open this time of night. 

The Huddle House is empty, apart from a bored-looking forty-something sitting behind the register and halfheartedly paging through a trashy romance novel. She looks up when Dean comes in, gives him a tired smile and says, "Hey, hon. Just you?" 

"Yes, ma'am," Dean replies. "Just me." 

Dean isn't usually one to feel lonely but it's two in the morning and he's pissed off his dad again. The Impala feels too big, empty with just Dean in it as the car eats up the miles. When Dean's had a long day by himself, there's no helping the feeling that something important's missing. 

Someone. 

Guilt licks at Dean's bones, the same way it has for the last twenty years.

He shakes it off as best he can and gives the waitress a smile. "Just wantin' some coffee and pancakes before I hit the sack," he says. "Nothing fancy." 

"You got it," she says, leading Dean to a booth near the door to the kitchen. "Pancakes, coming up in just a sec. Lucky for you," she says, her smile turning a little more awake, a little more genuine, "you beat the rush. I'll be right back with that coffee." 

Dean smiles his thanks and puts his elbows on the table, covering his eyes with the palms of his hands. He's exhausted, both because of the long day and because of the emotional rollercoaster he's put himself through, hills of anger and valleys of guilt, resignation and loss and need. He spent most of Tennessee wondering what life would be like if Sam was still with them, what they would all be like now, and he doesn't often let himself think about that but something about mountains always brings it out. He wishes he knew why. 

"You need cream, hon?" the waitress asks, setting down a full cup of coffee by Dean's elbow.

He startles out of his hands and smiles his thanks at her. "No, thanks, I'm good," he says, and takes a sip. The coffee's hot, almost blisteringly so, and bitter, but it hits the spot, warming him up from the inside out. 

"Pancakes'll be up in a couple minutes," she says. "Holler if you need a refill on that coffee, okay?" 

Dean nods, waits for her to leave, then looks down into the coffee, cradling the mug in his hands. It feels good for about ten seconds, then starts to burn. He leaves his hands on the cup. 

\--

The pancakes are hot when they come. Dean scarfs them down in record time and drains a second cup of coffee. Once he's done, food sitting in his belly, he slides out of the booth and leaves a twenty on the table. 

"Gimme one sec to grab some change for you," the waitress says, passing him to clear off his table. 

Dean's already halfway to the door. "No need," he says, flashing a Winchester-patented smile at her and watching her flush just a little. "You have a good night." He leaves before she can say anything else, jogs back across the road and practically falls into his room with a thankful sigh. He makes quick work of salt lines and wards and then strips down to his underwear before crawling into bed. Check-out's at eleven; he's got seven hours to sleep and Dean plans on making use of every single minute in every one of those hours. 

\--

In the morning, Dean gets up and decides in the shower to stay as far away from Atlanta as he can, so he skirts the edges of the mountains, picking up breakfast from a drive-thru in Ellijay before heading down 52. He goes over the route in his mind before he has to pull the atlas from the backseat. It's not that he's looking for the longest, most aimless drive possible, else he'd keep heading east until he hits the coast and then backtrack, meandering down 17 through Wilmington, Myrtle Beach, and Charleston. It's just that he's not in that much of a hurry. The bookstore's owner said they'd hold the book for the Winchesters until the end of the week and it's only Thursday. Dean'll take seven, maybe eight hours to get down to Savannah, try and enjoy the nightlife tonight, then go to the shop first thing tomorrow morning and pick up the book. 

Nothing to it. 

\--

Dean's never really minded all those old towns on the coast, Boston down to New Orleans, centred on the twin cities of Savannah and Charleston. His dad gets goosebumps going into the oldest cities and villages in the country and a lot of other hunters avoid them as well, but not Dean. He loves the hunts here, places big enough to blend in but still have their own character -- and plenty of it. The churches and consecrated holy ground put him more at ease than is probably safe for a veteran hunter but the ghosts and poltergeists that last long enough in these places to become a hassle generally present some unique challenges and are fun to put down. 

As Dean crosses into Savannah proper, heading for the river, he lets loose with a giant exhale, feeling the city wrap its arms around him and pull him in. He soaks in the feeling for a few minutes, getting off the highway early and driving into downtown on the surface streets, taking his time to get reacquainted with the squares and the heat and the sheer sensation of age, of longevity. When he's had his fill, Dean turns left; he's got vague memories of a Best Western somewhere close to the historic district, right on the river, remembers it being pretty cheap, all things considered, and close to the action. 

Thankfully he's right and thankfully they have a room, so Dean checks in, unloads the Impala, and tries to unobtrusively salt and ward the room just in case he brings someone back with him later. Then he heads out, intent on finding a good bar with cold beer and some nice scenery. 

\--

By ten, Dean's got a good buzz working on top of the sated feeling in his belly from the burger he grabbed earlier. He's wandering River Street with a go-cup in one hand, salutes a group of sorority girls laughing together, and ends up outside a dive bar, listening to the music as the door opens and closes behind him while he's sipping and staring out over the water to Hutchinson Island. There's a freighter passing by as he tips back the last of his beer; when he swallows and lets the empty Solo cup hang in his hand, there's a girl standing next to him. 

"Lookin' lonely, there, sugar," she says, and her accent and smile both are pure South: lush and wet and warm, inviting with a bite of possible danger underneath. 

Dean smiles back, can't help it, not with the way her lips are plump and slick with gloss, definitely not when he takes in the way the spaghetti straps of her tank top are sliding down her bare shoulders. "Well, my dad taught me never to argue with a lady," he says. 

She laughs, moves closer, one hand scratching over the short hair at the nape of Dean's neck. "You want some comp'ny, then? Far be it from me to let a handsome gent like you come all the way to our fair city and not offer some good ol' Southern hospitality." 

It's such a cheesy line but Dean gives her points for using it; she's the kind of woman who definitely doesn't need to use lines of her own. "Can't turn down, what'd you call it," he says, "'good ol' Southern hospitality?'"

With a grin, she offers her hand, says, "M'name's Leelah, sugar. You got a place close by? Mine's on the south side; we can go there if you wanna but it's a bit of a hike." 

Her skin is warm, fingers callused and palm dry. Dean lifts her hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to her knuckles before letting his tongue dart out and taste her skin, teeth scraping just the slightest bit. Her smile turns coy as she pretends at being a blushing virginal Southern belle, putting her other hand over her heart. "Oh, _my_ ," she says, and her eyes sparkle.

"Dean," he says. "And yeah, I've got a room at the Best Western. Nothing fancy." 

"Don't have to be fancy to be good," she says.

That makes Dean laugh and he nods, gestures towards the motel and walks alongside Leelah, tossing away the go-cup at the first trash can they walk past. 

\--

Leelah carries on a steady stream of chatter the whole way back to the motel. Dean doesn't have to say much to keep her going; he takes the opportunity, instead, to study her, the way she looks, the way she moves. She's trained in something though it's hard to say whether it's ballet or karate; either way, she's very at home in her body, seems like she knows how it works and how to keep it in shape. 

It's not that she's slim, either; she's got curves running for miles and looks soft around the upper arms and middle, but something about the swing of her hips, maybe, or the confidence oozing out of every pore, means she's at home in her skin the way so many women these days aren't. She's got great hair, too, tight curls that brush her shoulders with every step she takes. Dean imagines her on top of him, gleaming with sweat, one of his hands knotted in her hair and his mouth on her tits as she rides him, her nails digging into the meat of his upper back. 

Thoughts like that, it's no wonder he's already more than half-hard by the time they make it back to the motel room. She sees, licks her lips and says, "I have a feelin' we're gonna have some fun tonight, sugar." 

Dean laughs, can't help how throaty it sounds, and says, "Sure hope so."

Leelah saunters to him, pushes lightly at Dean's chest until he goes with it and moves backwards. When his back hits the door, she leans forward and kisses the smile from his mouth, tongue just as wet as her voice. Dean puts one hand on her hip, the other on the nape of her neck, and pulls her close. She moves with him, her tits against his chest, one of his legs between hers, and he hisses, kissing her harder, past the loss of breath and into lightheadness as she takes one hand and palms his cock through his jeans. 

"How's your recovery time?" she asks, the murmur purring in his ear. 

It takes Dean a second to make sense of that, especially when she's sucking his earlobe a moment later, a quick graze of her teeth against the soft skin before she lets it pop out of her mouth and licks the sweat up from his neck. "Great after the first," he says, tangling his fingers in the tiny curls where neck meets scalp, pulling her head back up. "Goes downhill after that." 

They kiss, and Dean thinks it's a real southern kiss, lazy but not because they're tired or slowing or done, only because it's too hot to go any faster, the air and Leelah's mouth both. It's enough to make his head spin. 

"Well, we'll get the first out of the way," she breathes, right into his mouth, and then slowly, agonisingly slowly, goes to her knees. Her hands follow her body's downward path, running over Dean's chest, nails catching on Dean's nipples, and across the planes of his stomach until they get to his belt buckle. "You got a problem with me going down on you like this? Or you wanna put on a condom?" 

Dean's never met this girl before in his life and he's usually pretty damn careful about making sure his sex is as safe from STDs as he can make it, but the thought of coming down her throat or all over her pretty face is enough to have him seeing stars already. 

"I'm good," he says. "Fuck am I good." 

Leelah laughs, makes quick work of undoing his belt and then the fly of his jeans, yanking them down before leaning forward and sucking at Dean's dick through his boxer-briefs. "Make a deal with you, sugar," she says. "I'll swallow if you let me ride you next. Don't often get the chance to be on top." 

Dean groans, can't help it, seeing her nuzzle at his crotch, hearing those words come from that mouth, thinking about how fucking good she's going to feel around him. "You ride me," he says, as she's fondling his balls through the cotton that is going to have to fucking _go_ , and sooner rather than later, "and we're good. I don't have to come in your mouth for that." 

"How 'bout you decide when you get there," she says. 

It's the last thing she says for a while. 

\--

Dean wakes up, gasping, one hand going to his chest and pressing over his heart. The other hand presses against his stomach and he prays to a god he doesn't believe in that he's not going to vomit. It's the same nightmare he's had off and on ever since Sam was taken, the one where Dean's not knocked out but lets Sam go with a smile on his face and telling his little brother that he did this, arranged the whole thing, and that he hopes the demons kill Sam and make it a long, painful death. 

By the time he's calmed down, Dean remembers that he'd brought back a girl to his room -- Leelah. He looks around for her, doesn't see any sign of her or her clothes, her purse, and lets out a silent breath of relief that she wasn't around to witness his freak-out. He gets a glimpse of the clock, sees the red lights glaring out 3:23 am. 

"Too fucking early," Dean mutters. He flops back onto the bed, stares up at the ceiling and the blinking light on the smoke alarm. It's never a good sign when Dean has the nightmare; it means he's been thinking too much about the past and he's about to have a really shitty day. 

\--

At ten, after a cold shower that does less than nothing to cure Dean of the sweat covering his body and a breakfast of eggs, grits, hash browns, and fried tomatoes that tastes good but immediately doesn't sit well in the heat, Dean leaves the hotel and drives to the bookstore. It's not that far, just a few blocks over from the hotel, but he figures he'll be on his way straight out of the city afterwards. 

Dean parks and walks into the store, the odor of old books and glue assaulting him as soon as he steps inside. The counter's not at the front and he has to wind his way past a few overstocked shelves and precariously tall stacks of falling-apart hardbacks before he sees the counter and then, a second later, the person behind it. 

Leelah's sitting on a stool, paging slowly through an old book that looks to be written in Greek from this distance, though she glances up when Dean clears his throat. "Well," she says, giving Dean a grin, licking her bottom lip. "Fancy seeing you again. Didn't know you were in the book business." 

Dean narrows his eyes; he has never believed in coincidence. "Did you know who I was last night?" he asks bluntly. 

She laughs, head thrown back, and Dean can see the trace of faint bruises on her neck. He left those, last night, and his dick aches at the memory. "Sugar, I don't even know who you are now," Leelah finally says, once she's stopped laughing, one hand over her stomach like it hurts to breathe. "I mean, sure, you gave me a name last night but there ain't nothin' sayin' it's your real name. You wouldn't be the first guy to lie about that." 

"Dean Winchester," he says, and is gratified to see the smile drop from her face. "Here to pick up a book." 

"No," Leelah murmurs, shaking her head. "Aw, shit." 

Dean tilts his head, puts one hand on his gun, and asks, "What's the problem?" 

She eyes the gun, then slowly sets the book down on the counter, keeping her hands in Dean's sight the whole time. "Nothin'," she says. "It's just, the book ain't here." 

"We had a hold on it," Dean says. "My dad told you one of us would be here to pick it up." He gets to the counter, puts his hands on it, and leans toward her. "Where," he asks, glaring, "is the damn book if it's not here?" 

"I ain't saying we sold it," she says. "We just didn't think it'd be a good idea to have something like _that_ here. This store has good security but it ain't the safest place we have. You followin', sugar?" 

Dean's mind is racing at the implication. He wishes he'd asked his dad more about this book, thinks maybe it was the height of stupidity to come down here on just his father's word and nothing else. "Fair enough," he finally says. "Where do I have to go to get it?" 

Leelah studies him and something rises up in the air around them, something earthy, the smell of dirt after it rains, fresh, strangely clean. Dean springs backwards, pulls his gun and cocks it, aiming right at the centre of Leelah's forehead. 

She lifts her hands and the smell disappears, the weighted feeling to the air following suit a moment later. "Put the gun down, sugar," she says. 

"What was that?" Dean asks. The gun, steady in his hands, doesn't move. "What are you? Voodoo? Hoodoo?" 

"Neither," she says, "but a lil' bit of both. It'd be better for our _buckruh_ to explain what we are. Just so happens, he's the one who's got the book. You want it, you gotta convince him." 

Dean holds her gaze for one minute, then two, and sighs. He puts the safety back on, tucks the gun into his jeans. "Fine," he bites out. "Where do I find this guy?"

Leelah grins, asks, "Where're you parked, sugar?"

"You're not going with me," Dean tells her. 

She shrugs, says, "S'the only way you'll find him. Lemme know when you're ready." 

She reaches out, picks up the book on the counter, opens it back up and starts paging through it again. She's turned eleven, maybe twelve pages, by the time Dean's had enough and says, " _Fine_. I'm out front. Let's go."

It looks like she's thinking about teasing him but her eyes flick to Dean's gun, then back to his face, no trace of a smile on her lips, those lips that stretched so pretty around his cock last night. "Alright, sugar. We'll go. Be about an hour-fifteen, hour and a half by car, shorter by boat. You got a preference?" 

Dean weighs his options. It's always nice to have an escape route and his baby's always been there for him, but the quicker he gets in and out of wherever this place is and away from these people, the better. Boat, though -- that means island and 'round these parts, if they're not talking about some rich asshole, island means Gullah. 

He eyes Leelah again, consideringly. The power, magic, whatever it was she pulled up, it was earthy, centred, and she said it was voodoo and hoodoo without being either. Dean doesn't know the Gullah traditions, not more than stories about boo hags and the reason why people around here paint their doors blue, but he's never heard anything _bad_ about the Gullah.

"Boat," he finally says. Better to get in and out as quickly as possible. 

"All right," Leelah says. "Let's get in your ride and head t'wards Tybee." 

\--

It takes fifteen minutes to get from the bookstore to Tybee Island. Leelah spends the whole time on the phone, talking in some dialect that's close enough to English for Dean to pick out thirty, maybe forty percent of what she's saying, and far enough away that he's still lost. It has him on edge, having her in the car, so close to him, and on the phone, talking about something he can't translate; he tries to square the way she felt when she came around him last night and the magic in the store this morning and can't. 

That's part of the problem, too: Dean's generally got a good sense of when people are more than just one hundred percent homegrown human, can tell when someone has a little something extra inside of them. That doesn't mean he hasn't slept with a few creatures over the years, he has, sometimes that edge makes the sex a little better, more raw, but he always knows what he's sticking his dick in. Not last night, apparently, and even though he's trying hard to find any sign he missed, he can't think of any. 

As soon as they drive over Lazaretto Creek, Leelah directs him off US-80 and to a public boat launch. Dean parks, waits for Leelah to get out of the Impala before he does as well. He goes to the trunk, grabs another gun and a gris-gris of protection from the trunk, and ignores the smile Leelah's giving him, seeing him shove the gris-gris into his back pocket. 

Without a word, he follows Leelah onto a boat with a tall guy behind the wheel. The guy nods at Dean, nearly imperceptible tilt upwards of his chin, but doesn't say anything. Leelah doesn't tell him anything either and yet the guy's pulling away from the dock less than two minutes later, heading north. 

\--

It's not a quick ride but it passes faster than Dean would have thought. Maybe it's something about being on the water, being further than the edge of the country. Dean's not a fan of the ocean, generally; he prefers lakes and rivers, hates the thought that there's a place out there he can't take the Impala, but, shit, boats are better than planes any day of the week. 

He keeps looking between the horizon, out east, and the land to the west. They never get out of sight of land, keep to it pretty close, actually, and if Dean were with other people, maybe had a cold beer in one hand, he'd ask what islands they're passing, what each of those creeks and rivers emptying into the ocean are called. Leelah has her eyes fixed on a point that never changes, though, no matter which way the guy piloting the boat takes them, and the guy hasn't acknowledged that he's got people on his boat since he pulled away from the dock. 

The wind burns Dean's skin but it's keeping him cool. It feels good in all the humidity down here and Dean's basking in it, the way it pulls his sweat-soaked shirt away from his skin. When the breeze stops buffeting his face, that's the first sign he gets that they're slowing down.

"Where are we?" he asks Leelah, looking at the island they're aiming for and checking his watch. The amount of time they've spent in the boat and the direction they took, they have to be close to Hilton Head. 

"Daufuskie Island," Leelah says. 

Dean narrows his eyes and wonders if the guy with the book is a rich jerk after all. They follow the curve of the island to the west and Dean picks out a golf course, some houses on the edge of the island that have to be fucking expensive. When they finally dock, though, it's at a public boat launch, not a private landing. Dean follows Leelah off the boat and onto land, giving the guy a tight smile. 

"I'll wait," the man tells Leelah. "Hurry back, cousin." 

Leelah responds in that language she was using before; Dean doesn't understand what she's saying but the guy nods at her, grinning as he settles down on the captain's perch and puts his feet up. 

"It's a public dock," Dean says to Leelah, following her to a golf cart parked in a row of five. Why she picks the middle one, he's not sure, but she slides behind the wheel and Dean doesn't have a choice but to sit next to her. He's wearing jeans but when his thigh presses against hers, he can feel the heat of her body sink into his skin. "No one's gonna care if he just, what, waits there? What if we're gone for hours?" 

"If he needs to move, sugar, he will," Leelah says. 

She turns on the cart, careens off in a cloud of dust that has Dean coughing. They follow the road for a little bit, then go off into the trees. Dean can't see very far around him, wouldn't be able to tell they're on an island at all apart from the smell of salt air and the sound of seagulls. They pull in front of a run-down little shack hidden in the shadows of trees and Spanish moss after a few minutes and Leelah tilts her head in the direction of the shack's bright blue front door. 

"Go on," she tells him. "Granny's inside and the _buckruh_ 'll be here as soon as he can. You can wait inside."

Dean's suspicious, can't help it because this feels like something of a set-up. "You aren't coming in?" he asks, not moving off the cart. 

"We ain't trying to kill you, sugar," Leelah says. She leans close, presses her lips to Dean's, and he feels the slip-slide of her tongue against his lips before she pulls back. "Swear on my nana's soul. I gotta go and see my momma since I'm here; she'll know if I don't stop by and visit and then there'll be hell to pay. I wanna make it a quick trip in case you ain't waitin' long for that book of yours."

She's never lied to him, not expressly; in fact, she's been downright honest for the most part, more than Dean would have expected with the way things have turned out. Leelah's meeting his eyes, sure and steady, and Dean has two guns, a few knives, and a gris-gris in his back pocket. Slowly, and with no little feeling of trepidation, he slides out of the cart and turns to the shack. 

"Word of wisdom, if you'll take one from me," Leelah says. Dean turns, raises an eyebrow, and she says, "Don't try lyin', all right? He'll know, sugar, and I can guarantee somethin' worse than leaving here without your book will happen." 

It's the boldest threat Dean's heard yet; it makes him respect her just a little bit more. "Fair enough," he says, and walks to the shack. 

\--

Dean knocks on the door. There's no answer so he swings the door open and takes a couple steps inside, one hand on a gun as his eyes adjust to the dim light. The room's dark, the only light coming in through the door and a dirty window in the back. It's pretty empty, not much inside save a bench along one wall, a rickety table along the opposite wall, and an old woman with long white braids sitting in a rocking chair. She rocks back and forth, toes flat on the ground as her heels move, sweep on the sand-covered wood. Her eyes are deep as midnight and shadowed to match; the light and dark lines of rustling tree branches outside fall over her face and body as she rocks back, rocks forward, rocks back.

Dean gets chills. "My name's Dean," he says. "I'm waiting for a guy." He waits, she doesn't say anything, so he adds, "I'm here about a book?" 

"Sit yourself down, chile," she finally says. Her voice is old and creaks just like the rocking chair, but there's a hint of something in her voice, the same something that Leelah pulled up in the air at the bookstore. It would be an understatement to say that Dean doesn't like it; he itches to shoot the old woman with a silver bullet and see what happens. As soon as he thinks that, though, she smiles at him, showing him the ruin of her mouth. "He be here soon and he ain't gonna like the way you go 'bout solvin' things ain't problems. Put a lid on it if'n you wanna leave wit' the book you came all this way for." 

Dean inches into the shack, sits rigidly on the corner of the bench, keeping the woman in his sights. She knew what he was thinking, knew it as soon as he thought it. Mindreaders are the worst. She laughs, a deep sound that stirs the sand on the floor. Dean wonders what the hell his father was thinking, to send him here, get him mixed up in this, and how stupid he was to follow orders without asking any questions.

"Weren't thinkin' 'bout much at all, I be wagerin'," the woman says. 

"Shut up," Dean tells her. 

She shrugs one shoulder as if to say, 'Whatever, your loss,' and goes back to staring at the front door.


	3. Act Two

The rocking chair creaks in a steady rhythm, echoed by the leaves outside making noise in the wind. Dean's mouth is dry. He hasn't spoken in ten minutes, hasn't moved either, and it's a struggle to stay ready for whatever's about to happen when the old woman's magic ebbs and flows like ocean waves, lapping at his senses and tickling his feet.

"Here he come," she says.

Dean jumps, nearly falls over from where he's been perched on the edge of the bench, one hand pressed to the wood next to him. He stands, brushes sand from his fingertips and ignores the beads of sweat rolling down the small of his back.

The woman smiles though not, Dean thinks, at him.

Dean hears the footsteps first, feels the floor of the shack vibrate a moment later. The woman slows her rocking and Dean presses back against the wall. The door creaks open. Dean can feel the power swirling in the air before he ever gets a glimpse of the man it surrounds. He looks at the woman, sees her smile and close her eyes at the feel of that magic. Dean wants to grimace, wants to hate it, but the magic smells like dirt and sweat and clean, honest work, like salt water and sea air, the cool breeze at the bottom of mountain canyons and the acrid heat of the southwest. From the second Leelah hadn't denied voodoo, he'd been expecting something dark, smelling of blood and death, but this is nothing like that. 

"Granny?" the man asks, taking another step in.

He sounds easy-going, calm, but there's magic in his voice.

Dean shivers.

"Come in, _buckruh_ ," the woman says. "You got a visitor." 

The shadow the man casts is huge, taller than Dean's. Dean has to look up when the man finally gets inside; that's a strange feeling, something that doesn't happen very often. He studies the man's face, feels an instant shock of recognition upon seeing the shape of the man's eyes, the curve of his chin. Dean takes one step forward and feels the weight of the man's gaze land on him, feels it and welcomes it. 

"Sam," he murmurs. Jesus. It's been twenty years and yet, looking at this man, meeting his eyes, Dean _knows_. 

The man tilts his head to the side, eyes leaving Dean to look at the woman for a moment before going back to Dean. The magic floating in the air around them doubles in intensity and Dean could almost sway, feeling it coil around him. It's not threatening, it's _comforting_ , even as it's teasing its way through Dean's skin and into his bones. 

"Sam," he says again, and he crosses the space between them to put his hands on Sam's shoulders, study his face, then pull him in for a tight hug. "Fuck." 

" _Buckruh_ ," the woman says. Dean stiffens, furious at himself for leaving his back unprotected when the woman has power in her voice. "This here be the one wantin' the book." 

Sam disentangles himself from Dean; he'd never returned Dean's hug, had borne it more than enjoyed it, and he steps backwards. Dean feels the loss like a slap to the face. "Sam," he says, trailing off, hopelessness twining with triumph in his chest. 

"I'm sorry," Sam says, and his voice holds power, more power than what's already in the air. If Dean could focus, he'd ask just where the hell all of this magic is coming from and how Sam, of all people, can control it, but then Sam says, "I don't think I'm this -- this Sam that you think I am." 

The woman laughs and Sam's eyes move from Dean's face to look over Dean's shoulder at her. " _Buckruh_ , mebbe you should listen to the chile here. There be a reason that book ended up in our hands. Mebbe this it. Could be he has the answers you been seekin' out all these years." 

"Answers?" Dean asks. "What answers?" No one acknowledges him so Dean barks out, " _Sam_ ," and is gratified to see Sam's eyes immediately snap to Dean's face. "What answers?" he asks again. 

Sam gives Dean a tight smile and a searching look, but not a response to his question. 

"You think he deserve the book?" the woman asks. "You tasted him, touched him. It gonna be safe in his hands?" 

"Is it for you?" Sam asks Dean. "Or are you picking it up for someone else?" 

Dean frowns, says, "It's for me. Well, and my dad. _Our_ dad. We're trying to keep it out of anyone else's hands. If there's nothing in it we can use, we're planning on locking it up in a safe place."

Sam narrows his eyes and asks, " _Use_? Do you even know what book your father sent you to pick up?" 

"Well," Dean says, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. "Not exactly."

The sigh Sam lets out -- frustrated, resigned, praying for patience -- is the same sigh he used to give when Dean fed him Cheerios for breakfast instead of Lucky Charms. It makes Dean ache. Twenty years and Sam's been hiding out here on an island at the edge of the country for God only knows how long. 

"Eleven years, child," the woman says. 

Sam says something to her but Dean can't hear the individual words over the noise of the rocking chair. He turns, steps back so he can keep Sam in his sight as well as the woman, and Dean watches as Sam goes over to her, drops to one knee and gently takes one of her gnarled, wrinkled hands in his. 

"You tasted him," she says, softly. "You know he be tellin' the truth."

Sam ducks his head. Dean can see a trace of something on Sam's neck; he gets closer and his eyes widen as he takes in a tattoo, something he's only ever seen on the back of the door to the Winchester storage locker. That tattoo, half-devil's trap, half-banishment rune, complex and owing more than a little to an Enochian 'nothing to see here, move along' sigil, is inked on Sam's skin in a reddish-black the colour of old, dried blood. 

The woman uses her other hand to card through Sam's hair. "Be time, _buckruh_ ," she says. "Take him home. Talk to him. Tell him what you know. And, _buckruh_ , _listen_ to what he tell you in return." 

"Granny," Sam says, looking up at her.

The power in the room, so tangible just a few minutes ago, is gone, all apart from the magic in Sam's voice and hers, when she chides him, says, " _Buckruh_." 

Sam ducks his head again, presses her knuckles to his forehead. He murmurs something that Dean can't make out, though he's not sure whether that's because Sam said it too quietly or he said it in that other language everyone around here seems to speak apart from Dean. Still, Sam unfolds himself and stands up to his full height a moment later. He and the woman hold each other's eyes for a long moment, then Sam inclines his head and turns to Dean. 

"I guess you're coming with me," Sam says. 

"Damn straight," Dean replies, instantly, and follows Sam out of the rundown little shack, back into the light and the woods, feeling the humidity curl around him, warm and tight, like a towel just out of the dryer. A moment later, a hint of magic joins it, rubbing right up against Dean's skin. Far from being an uncomfortable feeling, the magic's cozy, soothing. It feels like it belongs.

The implications of that has goosebumps prickling into being up and down Dean's arms. 

\--

They walk through the woods in silence. Dean can't take his eyes off Sam, keeps tripping over branches and stumbling around holes in the dirt. He feels more and more stupid every time he nearly falls because Sam is tall and sure-footed and walking through these woods like he's the one who planted them. Dean swats at a couple mosquitos that think maybe he's a good target but Sam doesn't seem to notice them. 

"So," Dean says, "that woman, she said you've been here eleven years?"

"That woman deserves respect," Sam says, tone biting and eyes flashing when he glances at Dean before jumping over a fallen-down tree trunk. 

Dean jumps over as well, not as gracefully in his heavy boots, and holds up his hands. "I never got a name for her, Sam. Don't go chewing my ear off, okay?"

Sam glances at Dean again, finally says, "Yeah, okay. Sorry. Just, if you don't wanna call her granny like the rest of us, her name's Anyika."

"Okay, then," Dean says. " _Anyika_ said you've been here for eleven years?" 

"Eleven years off and on the island, definitely more on than off," Sam says. "I don't like to be around a lot of people."

Dean's about to ask why not but they turn, go around a set of trees planted together so tightly that Dean wonders how they even grew in the first place, and then they're in a large clearing, house in front of them. Dean raises an eyebrow, takes in the log cabin and tries to decide if it's a one-story with a loft or a two-story. 

"That's a bit out of place down here," Dean says, eyes skimming across the haint blue door and window shutters, the hand-carved pair of rocking chairs on the front porch, the giant chimney coming out the back, the camellia and azalea bushes scattered under the windows, what looks like a vegetable garden taking up a whole corner of the yard along with a small compost pile. "Apart from the flowers, it seems more Appalachian than Southern." 

Sam shrugs, says, "I like working with my hands. And it's not like there's a shortage of wood lying around." 

Dean stares, asks, "You. You _built_ this?"

"I know it's nothing fancy," Sam says, and he sounds stung, defensive. "I mean, there's no electricity and I have an outhouse since there's no plumbing or anything, but I'm proud of it." 

"No, hey," Dean says. "I wasn't trying to -- listen, it's impressive, okay? There are days when I can hardly put up a tent. I mean, granted, it might be easier if I actually liked camping, which I don't, it's got to be an idea straight from the devil, but this is just." 

Dean's working himself up to a good rant, wants to apologise for coming across like some entitled bastard even though that's not what he meant at all, but when Dean mentioned the devil, something in Sam's posture changed and the magic Dean had almost forgotten about came back. It's not the same weight and power as before, it's different, targeted, sweeping out from Sam in low ripples, but Dean feels it flush through him and it stings like soap on open wounds. The anti-possession tattoo on his chest burns like it's fresh, not ten years old and sunken in. He shudders, can't help it, and says, " _Dude_. Tell me what I said to trigger that and I'll make sure I don't do it again." 

"Sorry," Sam says, after a moment, once that magic's coiled back up and pushed deep inside Sam to the point where Dean can't feel it anymore. "I didn't mean to hurt you." He pauses, thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. "Come on, let's get inside. I'll make tea." 

"Tea," Dean says. "Sounds great." 

\--

Sam stops on the porch and puts his hand on a symbol painted in the middle of the door. Dean hadn't noticed that symbol before; it's painted one shade lighter than the haint blue door, something soft like hazy skies. Sam murmurs something under his breath and the door clicks open, swings inward under its own power. Sam strides inside and Dean follows, slowly, taking everything in. 

The inside of the cabin is bigger than Dean was expecting. It's a lot nicer, too: hardwood floors and a ladder leading up the loft where Sam must sleep, blue ceiling, giant cauldron over the fireplace in the back, sitting area with handmade furniture and half a dozen circular rag rugs on the floor, gigantic hard-carved table in the kitchen with intricate wooden chairs, besoms above each window, the doorway, the chimney opening. Dean's eyes are quickly captured by the books, though; one entire wall is covered with them, and there are three four-shelf bookcases coming out from the wall, making an 'E' shape. From where Dean is standing, all of the books look old, like the ones in Leelah's shop, but there's a fog over them, something that shimmers and gleams in the light coming through the windows. 

Sam doesn't pause and doesn't say anything to break Dean from his study of the cabin. Instead, he's striding over to the kitchen, pulling out two ceramic mugs, setting them down and grabbing a bottle of something from one of the cabinets. 

"I can't believe you live without electricity," Dean finally says. "Sleeping, sure, that's fine, though it must get hot in the summers, and I guess if you need to get cleaned off the ocean's right there, but no fridge? No microwave?" 

"It's not as bad as you might think," Sam says, "especially with the restaurants and shops on the island, plus everyone who comes and goes from Hilton Head or Port Royal or Savannah. Where do you think I get my groceries from? And, I mean, it's not like I don't have the option. Plenty of other houses here have electricity. I just -- I just don't." 

Dean eyes Sam's back, asks, carefully, "That for a reason?"

Sam opens a tin of sweetened condensed milk and stirs a generous spoonful into each mug before taking them in his hands. He offers one to Dean and Dean holds the cup of room-temperature liquid and gives it a skeptical look. 

"It's better than you'd think," Sam says. He takes a long swallow of his, licks an errant drop from his lips, and gestures towards the sitting area. He sits down on one of the armchairs and Dean perches on the edge of the couch, across from Sam. He tries the -- Sam called it tea but it tastes like nothing Dean's ever had before, definitely not any kind of tea Dean knows about. It's sweet and thick and spicy, he thinks it would be too spicy if it was hot and too sweet ice-cold, so this middle temperature is just about right. 

Dean gives the mug another look but has a second sip, closes his eyes and lets the taste sit in his mouth for a moment before he swallows. "S'good," he says. "And you never did answer my other question." 

Sam gives Dean a wry smile. "Yeah," he says, "it's for a reason. Electricity seems to get fucked up around me. Light bulbs have a tendency to pop, tvs and computers get fried, once I even got a freezer to catch fire. I can generally keep it under control long enough to spend the day in civilisation but I still don't have a real good hold on it while I'm asleep. Tell me about your brother. About Sam." 

"About you, you mean," Dean says. Sam shrugs one shoulder and keeps his gaze fixed firmly on Dean's face. It's a little unnerving, to say the least. Sam's hazel eyes hold a deep, feral intelligence in their depths and they glitter, almost, something golden sparkling in Sam's irises. "If I do, you gonna tell me where you've been the last twenty years?" 

"Sure," Sam says. 

It's one word and delivered as easily and casually as Sam said it, Dean's not sure how much he really believes Sam. Something in him breaks, realising that; Sam used to look up to him, practically worshipped him, and yeah, that's not healthy for brothers but Dean liked knowing that he was responsible for Sam, liked having someone look up to him like that. 

Of course, Dean wasn't responsible enough, was he. 

"Sam was -- you were -- born on May second," Dean says, "1983. I was four. Our parents are John and Mary Winchester. Well. Our mom's dead. When you were five, we were staying in a motel in Oregon. Dad was hunting a poltergeist and we were in the room by ourselves. It was late. You'd gone to bed and I was sleeping on the couch, waiting for dad to get back. Before he got home, you were kidnapped by demons."

The magic comes back with that explanation and Dean can actually _see_ the power in the air as it winds around the interior of the cabin. The walls and windows, floor and ceiling, all start to shimmer with the same haze that was covering the books. But then Dean looks at the books and can't see them at all, the magic is too thick. He thinks back, remembers what he said outside, before they got to the cabin, and Dean asks, cautiously, "Should I not mention demons?" 

Sam's eyes are closed and he's breathing too evenly for it to be unconscious. His knuckles are white around the mug and Dean watches as one of the rag rugs on the floor starts to move, unwinding itself slowly. "Just -- give me a second," Sam mutters. 

Dean's eyes are fixed on the rug, which has completely unwound itself into one long line. "Okay," he says. "Yeah." The rug slithers to the door, coils up like some kind of cobra, head fixed on the door and swaying in the air. Dean has never been more freaked out in his life, and that counts the one time a girl he was fucking took a bite of his arm and full-on rugaru'ed right in the middle of sex. 

The haze slowly settles, though it's still there, faint in the corners of Dean's eyes, and the rug eventually collapses like someone just snipped its marionette strings. Sam opens his eyes and they're pure gold. All Dean can think of is the demon, _the_ demon, the one that killed their mother and that neither he nor his dad have seen or heard of in years, no matter how hard they look. 

"The first memory I have," Sam says, "is waking up in a house somewhere up north. I'm still not exactly sure where it was, they moved us around a lot. But they were all demons, with black eyes. Except for one. They -- did things to us. It's not. I don't like thinking about it. When I -- I mean, I eventually made it out here. It's safe, here on the island. No demons have ever made it ashore." 

Dean thinks about that, very carefully, and asks, "Have they tried?" 

Sam's hand, as he's lifting his mug to his lips, shakes. "More than once," he says, and the smile he gives Dean is grim. "It's why I tend not to leave." 

Just from that one statement, from the three or four sentences of explanation Sam's given him, Dean has so many questions. He's just not sure if it's a good idea to push, not with the way the walls and windows are still shimmering with magic, remnants of that rag rug piled in front of the door. 

Sam must guess where Dean's eyes flick to and he chuckles, says, "Sorry 'bout that. You should've seen my face the first time it happened, though. At least you didn't scream and try to run away. Damn thing followed me halfway to the water." 

Dean can imagine it; Sam never liked snakes, even as a kid, and he snorts, imagining the man in front of him -- built like a brick shithouse -- running screaming from a bundle of scraps. 

"Did I," Sam starts to say, then stops himself. 

"No, what?" Dean asks, once it's clear that Sam's not going to finish that question. "Go ahead, ask whatever you want. Did you -- what?" 

Sam looks like he's trying to decide whether this is a bad idea or not, but he finally just squares his shoulders and asks, "Was I like this as a kid? The power, I mean. Did I have magic like this? I've always wondered." 

Dean sets his mug down on the coffee table, eyes the book sitting on it, something old and Latin and bound in what just might be human skin. "No," he says. "You had the power to make any female over the age of six do what you wanted, and the power to get free pie at every roadside diner -- which you didn't like, you weirdo, but thanks for always letting me have it -- but nothing like this. Sometimes." He pauses, thinks back. "Sometimes it seemed like there was something in your eyes, something, I'm not sure, older. I usually wrote it off as gas." 

That makes Sam laugh, a real laugh, head thrown back and showing off the long, lean lines of his throat. Dean gets chills; take Sam's laugh as a four-year-old, add puberty and four feet, and it's so very easy to see his little brother in this grown-up stranger. 

"Gas," Sam says, finally getting hold of himself, putting his mug down as well. When he looks at Dean again, his eyes are back to normal, the hazel that Dean remembers so well. "Huh. Figures." 

"Have you had it as long as you can remember?" Dean asks. 

Sam looks distant, lost in thought. "It was there when I woke up," he says, "but not this much. It's grown a lot over the years. We all grew so much, especially right at first, but I always had the most. Hated it, but it was the only way I." 

Dean's getting a bad feeling about this. Sam's mentioning others but he's the only one living here; Dean has seen first-hand what kind of carnage demons can cause. "We?" he asks. 

"There were eight of us when I woke up," Sam says. "When we all woke up. None of us could remember anything from before that. The demons gave us names, raised us, took care of us, but they -- experimented on us as well. Injections of -- I've never figured out what. Every time they shot us up, though, the magic grew and grew. And eventually a yellow-eyed demon came. I was eleven." Sam's on auto-pilot now, eyes caught remembering a horror so deep that all he can do is live through it again. "The demon's name was Azazel. It said that we were its children, that we were going to lead an army but it had to know which one of us was the strongest. It made us kill each other, kill our brothers and sisters."

"And you were the one that survived," Dean says, softly. 

Sam nods. "I was the strongest. Always had been. Azazel was so very pleased with me." 

Hearing Sam say that, the wistfulness in his voice, the pride, makes Dean want to vomit. 

"Makhai killed Minerva," Sam says, "and I killed Makhai. I had to; he was going to kill me, and Minerva was -- we were close. She was mine, my sister, more than any of the others. When it was done, Azazel laughed and I was just -- I was just so _angry_. So I killed him. I killed all the demons. And then I started running. I never looked back. A few years later I made it down here and met Anyika in Beaufort. She took one look at me and told me the island would be safe so I came with her and I've hardly ever left since." 

"Jesus," Dean breathes. He can imagine it, hates imagining it: eight kids on the cusp of adolescence being forced to hunt each other, and that yellow-eyed bastard watching them, smiling as they -- Dean's mind stops, freezes on that. Yellow-eyed demon. Children. "Sam," he says, and he knows his eyes are wide and his voice is hoarse, but he can't help it, can't help the desperation. "Sam, did you say. Did you say you killed the yellow-eyed demon? It's _dead_?" 

Sam blinks, brought out of his memories by whatever he's hearing in Dean's voice. "Yeah," he says, eyes narrowed. "Why?" 

Dean slumps back on the couch. " _Jesus_ ," he says again. "Sam, you don't. That demon, dad and I have been hunting it ever since it -- ever since you." He cuts himself off, can't say it like that, so he takes a deep breath, says, "Fuck," like it's an incantation, and just lets it pour out from there. "That demon's the one that killed our mom. It was in our house, in your nursery, and it killed our mom. We never knew why it came after you the first time or that it was connected to the kidnapping. Shit. We're idiots, we should have known it was related -- how did we not know? Maybe dad did, just didn't tell me. But that's what started us hunting, back at the beginning, before the -- before you were taken. Dad and I have been trying to track it for years and we always thought we'd find it eventually, but." He stops again, says, "Oh fuck. I have to call dad. I have to let him know." 

Dean stands up, eyes wide, mind caught in an infinite loop that just says _the demon's dead_ over and over again. He doesn't even realise what he's doing until he's heading for the door and about to put a foot on the rag rug that had been, just a few minutes ago, a cloth snake. He flinches back and it's like that resets his brain. Dean turns, lays eyes on Sam, who looks resigned for a split-second before he blanks his expression and looks at Dean with guarded eyes. 

"Shit," Dean says. "Sam. You. You won't leave with me, will you. You're gonna stay here. God only knows what dad's gonna do; I can't imagine him giving up the hunting, maybe he will, but I. This is my life and I. But I just found you." 

Sam shrugs, like what Dean's said isn't important, isn't at the core of who and what Dean is, beneath the bluster and bravado, because his entire life since that night has been summed up in four words: hunt things, find Sam. And now he's found Sam and all the dreams he's tried not to have over the last twenty years, of Sam in the passenger seat of the Impala, hunting with Sam, being on the road and in this life together, they're worthless. 

"It's not safe for me out there," Sam says. "I mean, it's practical for me to live like this but don't you think I want hot showers? Pizza rolls on demand? A fucking coffee maker that'll start itself in the morning? Air conditioning and central heat and a toilet I can flush? Modern technology and I do not get along, Dean, not at all. And besides, I killed a demon with big plans. A lot of other demons, monsters in general, would love to get their hands on me." 

"The years you were running," Dean says, asking the question even though he doesn't want to hear the answer, "did they ever catch up to you?" 

Sam looks away and that, more than anything, is answer enough. 

Dean's stomach churns. "When did you get the tattoo?" he asks, voice barely a whisper. "The one on the back of your neck?"

"Eight years ago," Sam replies. "I found the design and went to Charleston to get it done." 

Eight years puts Sam at seventeen. Sam ran away from the demons at eleven and Anyika said that Sam's been on the island since he was fourteen. Sam was -- _his brother_ spent three years on the run, all alone, without any protection. 

That realisation clicks in Dean's mind and he has barely enough time to grab a trash can before he's vomiting. 

\--

When he's done heaving, Dean stumbles back to the couch and sits down heavily before his legs can give out. Sam gets up, goes over to the kitchen area and comes back with a bottle of Jack Daniels. He offers it to Dean and curls back up in his armchair, eyes shadowed, watching as Dean takes one swallow, then a second, then a third. Dean wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand, lets the burn fight it out with the rumbles in his stomach for a moment before the alcohol wins. 

"You came for a book," Sam finally says, once the silence has stretched out and grown just as heavy between them as the weight of Sam's magic had been earlier. "Do you still want it?" 

"I'm not just gonna fucking take the book and leave," Dean says, instantly. "Are you kidding? I just found you." Sam frowns and Dean says, " _No_ , Sam. You may not remember me, but I missed out on twenty years of your life. I wanna hear it all. I've got time to make up, here." 

Sam bites his lower lip and says, "It's not pretty. Not any of it, really, until a few years ago. It's not gonna be easy to hear." 

Dean shakes his head, takes another swig of Jack. "Doesn't matter," he says. "I still wanna know. 'Sides, I have a few stories for you, too. Things about when you were a kid, hunts that dad and I have been on, some of the girls I -- please tell me you aren't a virgin," Dean says, getting derailed. "Oh god. That would be awful." 

"Definitely not," Sam says, and the tone of voice is amused with a hint of dark promise, eyes shadowed and lips curved up in the hint of a smile. Dean bets Sam's gotten a lot of pussy with that face, not to mention the body that goes with it. Hell, if it wasn't Sam, if Sam wasn't his brother, Dean might be willing to give it up for that look. Might be willing anyway, judging by the way he feels now, dick sitting up and taking notice, trying to tell him that even though Sam's related, it's not like they _know_ each other, and that's a splash of cold water right to his libido.

"Anyway," Dean goes on, once he can. "We have stories to trade. I just gotta call dad and let him know I made it and that you're here. I think he was on his way to somewhere outside Phoenix but I bet it won't take him two days to get down here and start beating on your front door." 

Sam frowns, asks, "Are you sure that's the best idea?" Dean shakes his head, doesn't get the question, and Sam says, "I may live on the edge of the country in a log cabin without a tv, but even I've heard of the famous John Winchester, just like I've heard of all the things he likes to kill. You're telling me he'll let me live?"

Dean gapes at his brother. "Sam. Dude." 

"I think it's a legitimate question," Sam says, pressing on. "He doesn't know me. _You_ don't know me. All he'll know is that I have a hell of a lot of demonic magic and the demons want me back to lead some kind of army even though I killed their commander-in-chief. I'm probably not even human anymore. You think he'll let me live just because he knew me when I was five? It's been twenty years." 

Put that way, maybe -- no. Dean won't let himself think of it like that. John might be an unmitigated bastard sometimes and an asshole the rest of the time, but Sam's family. Sam's _blood_. "He'll wanna see you," Dean says, setting his shoulders. "He'll wanna know you're alive and safe." 

Sam doesn't look like he believes Dean but he's not arguing, either, so Dean takes it as a win. He's just about to say that he's going to go outside and call their dad if he can get a signal, see how fast Leelah can get to the mainland and back so Dean can pick up his duffel and wait for dad here, with Sam, but then Sam straightens and looks at the front door. The glimmer of magic in front of the books doubles, then doubles again, and every single rag rug disassembles itself and comes together in front of the bookcases, combining into one pile of fabric and forming a large snarling dog that drools out cotton thread as it bares its teeth. 

"Stay here," Sam tells Dean, and brushes past Dean to the front door. The power shimmering along the walls thins into knives that turn translucent a moment later; Dean takes that in, thinks it's kind of cool, and then follows Sam, stands at Sam's shoulder as Sam opens the door. 

There's nothing and no one outside, not that Dean can see or hear, but Sam tilts his head and power flows outwards, a steady line of thick barbed golden cable that hooks around the tops of the trees and bushes and shrubs like concertina wire. 

" _Buckruh_!" 

Dean straightens, says, "That's Leelah," and tries to push past Sam. He stops very suddenly and stands very still as one of those knives he saw before turns and digs its point into his throat. Dean's mouth has gone dry and he swallows, regrets it immediately as the knife pierces his skin and draws a bead of blood. 

He can only watch as Sam steps onto the porch, as Leelah comes running around the row of trees and through the wire like it's not even there. She stops, panting, right at the edge of the porch and bends over, puts her hands on her thighs as she tries to catch her breath. 

"John Jonas sent word," she says. "Something tripped the wards in Savannah, Okatie, and Beaufort." Sam takes Leelah by the shoulder and guides her to a rocking chair. She sits, clutching at his hand, and looks up at him with an expression on her face that Dean can't make sense of. "Baby. They tripped them all at the same time. _Exactly_ the same time." 

That makes Sam frown. He disentangles his hand from Leelah's and steps off the porch, hands curved in front of him. Sam takes a deep breath and cups his hands, pulling them toward his body. All of the power from the trees and bushes wavers and disappears, and when Sam exhales, he tosses his hands skyward. A giant wave of magic floods up into the air and, moments later, a golden-tinged firework explodes in the sky. Slivers of magic fall in a dome that's centred around them and the island, maybe sixty miles in diametre, Dean's guessing. 

It's beautiful, otherworldly; Dean still can't help cursing at the sight of all that magic, the unexpectedness of it. He winces as another bead of blood wells up on his skin and steps backwards, carefully, wondering if the knife's going to follow him. It doesn't, and the sigh of relief that Dean lets out is long.

"Leelah," Dean says, has to say it two more times before she takes her eyes off Sam, just standing there, and turns to Dean. "What's happening?" 

"The _buckruh_ and granny placed wards on the outside of our territory," she says. "Just as a warning, mostly. But it's never good when they trip."

Dean frowns, wishes he could step outside as well and face Leelah, stand at Sam's side and feel what Sam's feeling. "What can trip them?" 

Leelah's expression is fierce, nothing of the panic from a few minutes ago left in her eyes. "Demons," she says.


	4. Act Three

Dean feels blindsided, naked without the Impala and his full complement of weapons. "Sam said they've never made it on the island." 

"They've tried," Leelah says, after she's made a face, hearing Dean call his brother 'Sam.' Dean wonders why but dismisses it instantly; there are more important things to worry about right now. "Tried a lot. Just 'cause they ain't made it yet don't mean they ain't found a way this time." 

Her accent's gone more southern and more colloquial; Dean wonders if that means she's comfortable with him, trusts him, or if it always does that when she's worried. 

"What's Sam doing?" Dean asks. "The firework, what was that?" 

Leelah looks away from Dean, back to Sam, then up to the sky. "Granny'll activate the wards around our part of the island," she says. "But what the _buckruh_ just did? He's boxin' 'em in. They're stuck now; any demons that get touched by what he did ain't gonna like it one bit." 

Dean figures there won't be a better time to ask, so he waits until Leelah's looking at him again before he says, "What's that mean, anyway? _Buckruh_? That some kind of title or something?" 

"Naw, sugar," Leelah says, and she smiles a little. "It's Gullah. Means 'white people.' He's our white boy, fled down to us and blended in like he was born one of us, keeps us safe and follows our customs. Granny and the _buckruh_ , sounds like the name of a bad folk band, right? But they're the two we follow and when granny passes on, he'll name a new one."

Huh. White boy. Well, compared to Leelah and Anyika and even the guy who drove the boat to the island, yeah, Sam's the whitest person around. There are probably people on the other side of the island, closer to Hilton Head, who might not have Sam's tan but they're not Gullah and they probably don't live in houses with blue doors except that the landlord or marketing department or whoever thinks it's a quaint local custom. 

"How will we know if they get on the island?" Dean asks. 

Leelah's smile turns grim, determined. "We'll know. You might think his wards are dangerous," and she nods at Dean's neck. He'd almost forgotten about the blood; he lifts a hand, presses against the nick on his skin. "But granny don't mess around, neither. You may even notice it." 

"Let's hope they don't get that far," Sam says. He's finally turned around, is looking at Leelah and Dean, though when his gaze is on Leelah, it's fond and deep, and his eyes on Dean are thoughtful, close to suspicious but not quite over the edge yet. "Until then, Dean, I'm sorry. You won't be able to leave the island. You can call your father if you'd like; there should be enough of a signal for your cell."

"What the fuck am I supposed to tell him?" Dean asks. "And will you _please_ tell these knives I'm no threat?"

Sam holds Dean's gaze and says, "Not until I'm convinced of it." 

Leelah scoffs at that before Dean can, says, "Baby, please. I know you've put power through him to make sure he's safe enough for the book. I did the same thing at the shop, before I brought him here and I bet granny did too. He ain't no threat to us. 'Specially," she adds, "if what granny said is true. Is he. Is he really your brother?" 

"Yeah," Dean says. "I am." 

Sam looks away from Dean, tells Leelah, "Yeah. I think so."

Leelah snorts, slaps her palm to her forehead and says, "Well, shit. I got me a matched set of Winchesters and I'm still breathing. Never thought _that_ would happen." 

Sam looks startled and Dean says, "What?" because he doesn't understand why he can see the whites of his brother's eyes. 

" _Shit_ ," Leelah says again. She lays her head back, stares up at the porch roof.

Dean would _really_ like some answers and he's about to press for them, demons at their doorstep or not, but then Sam falls to his knees, gritting his teeth, and Leelah gets up, darts out of the chair and around to Sam, crouching down next to him. Dean's instant reaction is to go over as well but as soon as he moves, the knife comes back, right to the same spot at his throat. This time, he can feel the tip of a second knife pressing through his shirt, right over his heart.

"Sam, call your fucking psychic weapons off," Dean says, half a growl. " _Now_." 

"Come on, baby," Leelah coaxes. "Pull 'em back. He just wants to help. Ain't nothin' to worry about. I'm right here." 

The knives shimmer back into view, all of them, and Dean gulps when he sees others aimed at him, one of them right in front of each eye, sharp points less than an inch away from the ends of Dean's eyelashes. The knives waver in the air before they all disappear. Dean takes the first step out the door gingerly. When nothing happens, he covers the distance between him and Sam as quickly as possible and crouches down on the other side of Sam, squeezing Sam's shoulder as Leelah rubs Sam's back. 

"What's going on?" Dean asks. He never thought he'd get the chance to be worried about his brother again but now the time's here and he hates it, hates the way it makes him feel so powerless and small in the face of something he can't kill. "How do we help?"

"Hold on to 'im," Leelah says, and a second later she's running into the house.

Sam shudders, the hair on his arms standing straight up, and Dean says, "Hey, Sammy. Talk to me, here. What can I do?" 

"Just -- stay here," Sam says. 

"Yeah," Dean says, "of course," like Sam hasn't just asked him to do the easiest thing in the world. 

\--

It's not long before Leelah's coming back out of the house, rag in one hand and a mug in the other. As soon as she gets close enough, Dean gets a whiff of the rag. The two smells he can pick out are vinegar and wine, strong enough to make Dean's eyes start watering. 

Leelah slaps the rag over Sam's eyes and says, "Tilt back, I got your mix." 

Sam follows directions instantly, tilting his head back and opening his mouth; Dean gets one look at and sniff of the contents of the mug and pushes Sam down, away from Leelah, onto his ass. "What the fuck is that?" he asks, getting in Leelah's face. 

Leelah narrows her eyes, says, "Get out my way, sugar," but doesn't answer Dean's question, so he feels justified in staying right where he is. 

"Dean," Sam says. "Please."

"What's in it, Sam?" Dean asks. "Because it looks and smells an awful lot like blood to me." 

Sam struggles to get back to his knees, one hand on the ground and the other keeping the rag on his eyes. "It is," he says. "Blood and holy water and sage and salt. A few other things as well. And it tastes like shit, so let me get it down and then you can yell." 

Dean's torn -- Sam's drinking _blood_? -- but he steps out of the way and lets Leelah pour the disgusting concoction down his brother's throat. Sam gags once he's finished swallowing and for a moment, Dean thinks maybe the drink will be coming back up, but Leelah covers Sam's mouth and murmurs, "Come on, baby. Just breathe. That's it, in and out." 

The two of them breathe in sync and Dean watches as Sam calms down. Eventually, Sam pulls the rag from his eyes; they're bloodshot but hazel. Dean has so many questions about so many things that he doesn't know where to start. Sam meets his gaze, gives him a wry smile like maybe he knows exactly what Dean's thinking. 

"You can't read minds like Anyika, can you?" Dean blurts out. 

Leelah laughs, helps Sam get to his feet. "Nobody can read minds the way the granny does," she says. Dean thinks he's supposed to read a real answer to his question in those words, so he does. Sam wavers on his feet and Leelah puts an arm around his waist, pulls him in close and tight, says, "Come on, lets get you to a chair," and then coos something in the dialect that Dean can't make heads or tails of. 

She takes the eight or nine steps to the closest rocking chair slowly, and makes sure that Sam sits down before she perches across from him on the wide porch railing. "How much time we got?" she asks. "'Cause between the two of you, I'm willing to bet there's a lot of ground we gotta cover, and quick." 

"They left the land," Sam says, and he looks out into the woods -- past it, Dean thinks, to the water. "The one in Savannah, anyway. The others are getting closer. We have half an hour, I think. Maybe slightly less." Sam blinks, shakes his head a little, and looks at Dean. "I know you have questions." 

"Damn straight," Dean says, and he pulls the other rocking chair around so he can see Sam and Leelah both, the three of them in an uneven triangle, Sam as the focal point and a short space between Dean and Leelah. "First, blood? Second, matched set of Winchesters? Third, what the fuck are we supposed to do about the demons if they get past the wards this time and make it to land?" 

Sam and Leelah look at each other, smile, and Leelah says, "He's your brother, baby. He'd have to be at least as smart as you to keep up. The way things have gone, might be smarter than you by miles."

Dean frowns, doesn't like the sound of that. Dean's not short on self-esteem but he knows that he's street-smart, not book-smart; he dropped out of high school and got his GED which might make people wonder but he can survive on the streets for as long as he needs to and he's built EMFs out of cassette players, he's got a good brain. Sam, though. Even as a five-year-old, Sam had been sharper than a _palo santo_ arrow. 

Sam and Leelah are still looking at each other and Dean gets the sudden impression that they're communicating in every quirk of the lip or twitch of the eyebrow. It's a language that people only have when they -- "Oh, fuck," Dean says. "I didn't mean to -- are you -- I never even asked if you were." 

He stops and Leelah chuckles, the chuckles turning into a full-blown belly laugh so immense that she nearly falls off the railing when she lifts a hand to slap her thigh. "Oh, sugar," she purrs, once she's regained enough breath to talk. "You _are_ related, clear as day. What'd you call him, Sam? So we finally got your _buckruh_ name, baby. That's good to know. And it sounds good together, don't it: Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam. Strong names." 

Of course. Sam couldn't remember what his name was when he woke up, and no matter what the demons called him, he wouldn't have wanted to bring that name down here to relative safety with him. Dean's on the verge of asking what Sam's been calling himself all this time but Sam's covered his eyes with his palm and Leelah's giving Sam a fond if concerned look. 

"S'about your second point," Leelah finally says, looking back at Dean. "A matched set? See, my _buckruh_ name, that's Leelah, but my basket name's something different. Here on the island, granny gives each of us a name when we're born, something a little prophetic. I never knew what mine meant, not for the longest time, but when I was fifteen, granny brought back a tall skinny white boy with her from a shopping trip on the mainland. I knew it had something to do with our boy there but never figured out how, not 'til now. Brothers. Huh." 

Dean takes his eyes off of Leelah long enough to see a blush starting on Sam's cheeks and going up to the curve under his eyebrows, out to his ears, down his neck. He looks back to Leelah, rolls his eyes and says, "You gonna tell me?" 

"Not my name," she says, giving Dean a wicked grin, "not until you guess it. But what it means? Sure thing. I got me a set of brothers and I ain't never letting go. You're _mine_ , sugar, and so's he. You're gonna have to find a way to deal with that." 

"Are you," Dean starts to say, has to stop because he has no idea what to actually say to that. Leelah's hot, yeah, and fuck he won't mind having another roll in the sack with her, but apparently Sam's been -- and she thinks -- "What."

Leelah leans over, pats Dean on the knee. "I ain't saying you should start thinking about fucking your baby brother's ass right away, but he does like something up there every once in a while." 

"Will you please _stop_ ," Sam groans, half a whine. His blush isn't even a blush anymore; he's gone lobster-red on every inch of skin Dean can see. "He hasn't seen me since I was a whiny five-year-old brat, Lee, and I don't remember him at _all_. We don't need to talk about, y'know, _that_." 

"Sex, baby," Leelah says, and she's wicked, has the grin to match as she licks her lips. "And why not, huh? He's gonna wanna know how you like it eventually. I thought all brothers talked about shit like this?" She looks at Dean, then, gleam in her eyes, and says, "Now, sugar, how we done it last night, mm, that was good, but you two couldn't be more different between the sheets. The _buckruh_ here, he likes it rough, likes to be on top, likes to get skin between his teeth and _bite_ , and I gotta say, he tries for sweet and soft and submissive when I'm in the mood and I love 'im for it, but it ain't his style. I'm sure as hell glad it's yours; a girl likes to mix up her sex life and keep it interestin'." 

Dean stares at her, feels a blush creeping up _his_ cheeks now, and he's been generally immune to sex-related embarrassment since he hit thirteen. Still, sitting here, thinking about the implications of what Leelah's saying, looking at the beast of a man that Sam's grown into, Dean can't help but wonder what she'd look like, Sam fucking the breath out of her, the noises she might try to make, and how it would feel if he had his dick buried halfway down her throat at the same time, meeting Sam's eyes over her back, maybe his mouth, too. 

"Blood," Dean says, shifting on his chair. "First point. What the," he says, has to swallow, try and push the images running through his mind to one side. Leelah's looking at him like she might be able to see exactly what he's thinking about -- matching bruises sucked into both sides of her neck, marks from him and Sam so that everyone walking into that bookshop of hers will know she's taken -- and Dean ruthlessly shoves that all to the side and focuses. "What the drink was you gave him. Sam said, uh, blood and salt and sage and holy water?" 

Leelah holds Dean's eyes for a moment, as if she's telling him that she knows exactly what he's trying to do, but then leans back and looks to Sam to explain. 

"We never figured out what was in the injections the demons gave us," Sam says. "But we think part of it was demon blood. Sometimes when I use my power, it gives me a fucking awful headache. I used to get nosebleeds. Me and granny figured out that it's kind of like a fail-safe, right? Demon blood triggers the power, boosts it, so we need to keep taking it to keep the magic." 

"Please," Dean says, "don't tell me that was demon blood. Jesus." 

Sam narrows his eyes, says, "How fucking stupid was I as a kid, Dean? Of course it's not demon blood, are you crazy? Do you think _I'm_ crazy? It's half holy water, a mix of herbs and spices soaked in salt water, and a few drops of granny's blood." Dean feels relief pour through him like wind or rain or that magic Sam sent over earlier. There's a little bit of shame mixed in there, too, but Sam sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and says, "Sorry. It was a logical conclusion to make; I shouldn't have jumped down your throat. I'm just -- touchy about the demons."

"We're gonna -- with the -- it probably won't be the first time one of us, y'know," Dean says, stumbling over his words. 

It must make sense to Sam, though, because Sam looks at him, smiles with his lips and eyes, and says, "Lots of ground to cover."

Dean holds Sam's gaze, echoing Sam's smile, until Leelah clears her throat. He looks away from Sam, feeling the edges of the blush beat on his cheeks again. "Right," Dean says. "Speaking of lots of ground to cover. Third point? What are we supposed to do if demons are able to get on the island this time?" 

Sam looks down at his hands, says, "Granny's wards will try and keep them out. Up until now, it's pushed them out of their hosts every time, before they can even step on the island. Without a host, they've fled back to the mainland right away." 

"But they can just possess other people," Dean says, frowning. "I mean, anyone already on the island is open game, so what's stopping them from, I dunno, coming on land and possessing someone else?" 

"Our territory on the island is warded in a devil's trap of rowan trees and iron," Sam says, "from the edge of the sand all the way around. If they get past granny's wards, they'll have to get past the devil's trap. And if they can do that, they still won't be able to possess any of our people: they're all tied into the wards and more than half of us have anti-possession tattoos as well." 

Dean glances at Leelah; he hadn't noticed a tattoo anywhere on her skin last night. She lifts one foot and twists it around, says, "Sole of the foot. Not a fun time, sugar, but that way no one asks questions 'bout it." 

"Where's yours?" Dean asks Sam. "I saw the notice-me-not on the back of your neck but I'm assuming there's an anti-possession tattoo somewhere as well?" 

Leelah wolf-whistles, says, "Sure you ain't just asking so you can see him naked?" with a dirtier leer than one Dean could ever hope or dream of coming up with. 

"I'm not asking for a fucking striptease," Dean tells her, exasperated and trying to ignore the blood rushing to his dick at the thought. "I just wanna know." 

"Anti-possession over my heart," Sam says, breaking in before Leelah can say anything else. "Another one on my ankle. There are a couple other sigils and runes on my back as well, more along the lines of the -- what did you call it? -- notice-me-not. How did you know about that, anyway?" Sam asks. 

He's clearly curious, sounds it and looks it both, head tilted to one side, and Dean gets a rush of homesickness and pure rage at the same time because he's seen that look from Sam before, so many times, and demons took Sam, made it so that Dean wasn't there to see Sam grow up, change into the person sitting right there in front of him, head cocked and eyebrow raised. 

"We found it in a book," Dean says. "Got lucky, really, when a whole slew of books fell into our hands. Dad bargained with another hunter for them, maybe a year after you -- maybe when I was ten. How did _you_ find it?" 

"Fuck," Leelah murmurs. "Makes sense now." 

Dean glances at her, ready to ask what that means, but Sam says, "I dreamwalked," and steals Dean's full attention. "Saw it on the back of a -- there was something about a locker before. Of course." 

Dean leans forwards, says, "Are you -- you _dreamwalked_ and saw it on the back door of our storage locker? That's impossible." 

"Not for the _buckruh_ ," Leelah says. "You'll find that out soon enough." 

"No," Dean says, and he shakes his head, narrows his eyes, keeps his gaze locked on Sam for any sign that Sam's lying. "You said you saw the design eight years ago. You were here. I don't know what kind of books you have but you had to've seen it in a book. That sigil is supposed to keep out _everything_." 

Sam opens his mouth, then shuts it again, looks at Dean thoughtfully. "Are you mad because you think I'm lying," he asks, "or because you thought it would keep anything and everything out of the locker and now you're realising it won't?" 

Dean rolls his eyes, says, "Because it should have kept out anyone, idiot. Dad's gonna go apeshit." He hangs his head, rubs his fingers over his eyes. "Damn it." 

"If it's any consolation," Sam says, "I don't think it'll work for anyone else. I mean, there's no one else with the exact same skillset as me; the rest of them are dead. And you've made concessions for you and John to get in the locker, right? Probably used his blood as a base?"

"And you're his son," Dean says, following Sam's train of thought, "so the blood would let you in as well. Okay. That makes me feel a little bit better. Still. _Dreamwalking_?"

Sam shrugs one shoulder, looks a little uncomfortable. "Astral projection, I guess? We're not quite sure, but I can't do it when I'm awake, so."

Dean looks at Sam, really _looks_ , and then he turns, asks Leelah, "Is he always this shy talking about what he can do?"

"Since the first day I met him," Leelah says. "Shy 'bout everything. S'why I said maybe you're the smarter of the two. Definitely more confident." 

He's smiling, can't help it, knows it's a cocky grin if there's ever been one. "How long did it take before you two slept together?"

"Wasn't as quick as you, sugar," Leelah says, and her grin mirrors Dean's exactly. 

Sam groans, mutters something under his breath, and says, "I hate you both."

"No, you don't," Dean and Leelah say, right in sync.

\--

Conversation dies down from there. Dean's counting backwards, trying to guess how long it's been since Sam's initial guess of demons landing in twenty or thirty minutes. It should be any time, he guesses, and says as much, breaking the silence. Leelah rolls her eyes but Sam nods, even with the skin around his eyes tight and pinched like he's thinking _really hard_ about something. 

"Don't go lookin' for 'em," Leelah warns him. "They'll come when they come." 

Sam sits back in his chair, tension leaving his frame as he sighs. "I know," he says, "I just wish." He stops, right in the middle of the sentence, and opens his eyes wide. Dean's just about to ask what Sam's thinking but then Sam says, "Oh, shit," and squeezes his eyes closed with a grimace. 

Leelah slides off the railing, plants her feet, and tells Dean, "They're near granny's wards."

A moment later, before Dean has the chance to do anything except process Leelah's statement, she shudders, her power flooding out of her and surrounding her in a brown and green cloud of magic. Dean smells the woods come alive around them, wet earth and the cool, crisp air of a forest after a spring thunderstorm. It's -- stunning, that's the best word Dean can come up with to describe it. 

"You okay?" Dean asks, standing up. He's not sure what to do when his mind catches up with his body; he doesn't know if it's safe to touch her through the magic or not, wants to go to her but wonders if that might make whatever's going on worse. 

Leelah takes the indecision away. She holds out one hand for Dean and he grasps it, immediately, eyes widening as he feels the magic undulate and ripple outwards to cover him as well. "I wish I could say I'm doing this on purpose," she says, "but it's a side-effect of the wards activating." 

"S'okay," Dean says, and he squeezes her hand, her skin fever-hot to his touch. "Will we know if they work?" 

"We'll know," Leelah says, and lifts her chin, nodding in Sam's direction. 

Dean follows her gesture to his brother, nearly growls when he sees Sam leaning forward, gripping the chair's arms, knuckles white with the pressure. Sam's eyes are open now and he's looking right at Dean and Leelah but not _at_ them, more _through_ them. 

A ringing starts in Dean's ears; he shakes his head but it grows deeper, more intense, and he realises he's not imagining things, there's really a noise coming from somewhere that might blow out his eardrums if it doesn't stop soon. He keeps his eyes on Sam and sees Sam blink, focus on Dean, see the pain that Dean's in. Sam bares his teeth, an approximation of a smile that looks more like a snarl, and a wave of golden magic explodes from his body, turning Dean's vision a shimmering sunflower yellow. The noise stops instantly, _all_ noise except for the sound of Dean's heartbeat, echoing in his ears. 

When Dean's vision clears and his hearing comes back, Sam is fucking _glowing_ and his irises have gone golden again. Dean sees glitter out of the corner of his eyes and realises that he's glowing as well. He rubs the fingers of his free hand together and the magic feels thick and viscous like suntan lotion but it's not on his skin, not exactly. 

"Wait for it," Leelah mutters. 

Dean's about to ask what they're supposed to be waiting for but the island shakes under his feet before he can open his mouth. All the birds in the forest take off into the sky and Leelah breathes out through her teeth. Dean can feel -- _something_ pulling on him, something that wants to yank at his bones and force them through his skin. "Okay," Dean says, as he staggers on his feet before he can steady himself. "If we wondered whether or not I'd feel the wards, I think we have an answer." 

"Shouldn't last much longer," Leelah tells him and grips his hand even tighter. Dean's lost feeling in the tips of his fingers and her nails have dug crescents into his palm. "Just hold on a little bit more." 

With a nod, Dean closes his eyes, follows Leelah's example and breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth, like some kind of meditative exercise. Unlike the beginning, the end comes slowly, a gradual ramping-down of intensity that Dean notices in waves. Just at the moment he thinks it's over and lets go of Leelah's hand, a concussive boom at the edge of Dean's range of hearing rings out over the island. 

"What was that?" he asks. "Was that the demons?"

"Naw, sugar," Leelah says. Her face looks carved from stone, some avenging angel with fury in her eyes and a determined set to her mouth. "The noise you heard first, the one that hurt? That was the demons attacking the wards. This noise was granny's wards breaking."

Dean pales, says, "Breaking? Like, they made it on the island this time?" He's wishing again that he had the Impala with all his weapons here, because what he brought with him, it's good, but he's got bigger and better in the Impala's trunk. 

"They made it on the island this time," Sam confirms. "It was just a matter of time before they found a way around granny's wards, I guess. But still. This is not going to be pretty." He pauses, then smiles, teeth bared, and adds, "For them." 

Dean grins back at his brother, lets the sun catch on his teeth and his still-shimmering skin, and says, "Let them come."


	5. Act Four

There's a flurry of movement almost immediately after that. Sam and Leelah head for the front door, footsteps in rhythm. Dean takes out the gun from the back of his jeans as he's following and on the threshold, he bends over, grabs one of the knives from his boot. Neither of them are demon-killing weapons but they'll definitely hurt a demon, whether it's possessing a host or not. When he looks up, Sam and Leelah are bent over a hole in the floor, something Dean hadn't noticed before, and the rag rug dog has formed back into half a dozen snakes, all in front of the library area. 

Dean walks over to his brother and stands next to Sam, looks over his shoulder. "Hell of a weapons cache," he says, knows he sounds impressed but he can't help it. Knives, daggers, even a couple short-swords, and a whole range of guns, all different calibers. Sam's ignored all of them, though, to take out a box that looks old. Dean stares at the box, finally says, "Is that." 

"Yeah," Sam says, when it's clear that Dean's not going to be able to finish his sentence. "Samuel Colt's gun. I found it before I got to the island." He opens the box and unfolds a piece of yellowed cloth, unwrapping the gun. Dean's eyes catch on the runes, the words engraved into the barrel, and the three bullets left in the box. "Took me forever but I learned how to make more bullets, too. Started reverse-engineering it in my spare time but I hit a block with the recoil plate. Maybe you'll be able to figure it out." 

Sam reaches one of his long arms into the cache and pulls out a canvas bag, shows the contents to Dean. Bullets, dozens of bullets, all for the Colt. 

Half of Dean wants to rail at how unfair it is that Sam's been keeping the gun on the island, far away from where it can do any good, but before he gives in to the urge, he remembers what Sam's gone through: six years of experimentation, forced to kill for survival, perpetually on the run from demons. It could've gotten lost out in the world and there aren't many people Dean would trust with it, not with how powerful it is, but it's been safe here, ready for use, and Sam might be able to make _more_?

Dean's taken aback when Sam hands the Colt and the bag of bullets to Dean. 

"Go on," Sam says, practically pushing them in Dean's hands. "You're the best one to use it." 

"Why?" Dean asks, even as he's shoving his own weapons away again and taking the canvas bag, slinging the long handle over his head so he can wear it like a messenger bag, right on his hip. He takes the gun as well, loads it, sights along the barrel at a point on the wall. It feels right in his hands, as if it was made for him, down to the precise curve of his palm and size of his fingers. 

Sam smiles, seeing it, and turns back to the cache. Leelah's moving back from the hole, knife in one hand and a longer dagger in the other, both of them gleaming in the sunlight streaming in through the windows and open door, both of the blades covered with engraved runes and sigils. She stands, Dean helping her with one hand on her elbow, and the smile she gives him is just as bright as the blades. 

"'Cause I like knives better," Leelah says, and twirls the knife and dagger at the same time, in opposite directions. It's nothing fancy, just a twirl, but both at the same time, and her still looking at him? Dean's honestly impressed. Knives have never been his favourite; he always wondered in the far corners of his mind if Sam would be the one that knives sang to, always figured that the cute, short kid he knew twenty years ago would grow into the silver shine of their father's knives the way Dean never had. "And the _buckruh_ don't need the gun." 

"What're you gonna use?" Dean asks his brother. 

Sam closes the cache up, puts his hand to the centre of the trapdoor and murmurs something under his breath. With that spell in place, Dean can't even pick out where the opening was though he was just looking at it. Sam stands up and his smile echoes the glow of vindictive cruelty in his yellow eyes. "I spent three years on the run from them without weapons," he says. "I learned a few things."

Dean can't decide whether to push or not because no matter how much magic Sam has, having weapons as a backup is never a bad idea. The choice is taken out of his hands when Sam and Leelah head for the front door, Sam flicking his hand in the direction of the rag rug snakes. They don't respond, not that Dean can see, apart from a little shudder that goes through all of them, that and the golden shimmer that rests on the rags and then sinks in, turning the fabric yellow. 

"Where are they, baby?" Leelah asks, as they're moving through the house, Dean catching up to them as they reach the front door. 

Sam pauses on the porch, gives Leelah a tight smile, and says, "Oh, they're on their way. They're coming right here." 

"They got hosts?" she asks next. 

"Yeah," Sam says. "Not sure how they got across the rowan and iron, but they have bodies. Bodies in bad condition, but bodies." 

Leelah nods like that's answered more than one question. "Plan A, then. Sounds good to me." 

"What's Plan A?" Dean asks, low and under his breath, as Sam strides across the porch and stands a few feet in front of it, intently watching the space between the barrier of trees.

"Get 'em talking and see why they've been tryin' so hard to get to him," Leelah tells Dean. She nods in Sam's direction and walks to him, Dean at her side. "Kill them if they look at us wrong." 

Dean snorts and when Leelah looks at him with a raised eyebrow, he says, "Demons can't ever look at people _right_."

She chuckles until Sam says, "They're coming. Get ready." 

Demonic radar. Must be useful.

\--

When three demons come into Dean's view, he's standing on Sam's left, Leelah on Sam's other side, the three of them a straight and uncompromising line. The demons, possessing hosts that are almost burnt beyond recognition, stand across the clearing from them, mirroring the line without words. Dean doesn't understand why the demons haven't healed their bodies but guesses it's something to do with granny's wards and the devil's trap, that or they don't want to waste the power when they know they have a bigger fight on their hands. 

"Those wards kept us out for a while," the demon in the middle says, smiling at Sam. "It was a clever move, Sammy." 

"I'm the only one that gets to call him that," Dean snaps. 

A moment later, Leelah says, " _We_ are the only ones that get to call him that. Get off my island, you devil." 

The demon laughs, takes one step forward. The dirt under its feet explodes, rocks and chunks of fossilised tree flying up and cutting the charred skin of the human host to pieces. Dean could vomit, watching as ash falls off the host's arms, ash that was once human skin. 

"All your pretty little tricks," the demon purrs. "You think we'd forgotten all of the traps you used against us? We remember and we're ready, Sammy. Oh, sorry," he says, an over-the-top apology -- that the demon _obviously_ doesn't mean -- directed at Dean and Leelah. "I'm not allowed to call you that, am I. Well, in that case, I suppose I'll revert back to calling you Set. It's what Azazel named you, back then, and he chose the perfect name for you." 

Dean doesn't get that, _Set_? But then he remembers what Sam said, that the demons took care of them and gave them names. The other two that Sam mentioned earlier, Minerva and Makhai, goddess of war and god of war, Dean thinks, if his memory is correct, and Set, the Egyptian god of chaos and violence. Demons have a vicious sense of humour, naming the kids after gods and goddesses of bloodshed and death, knowing the whole time that they were planning on setting the kids against each other in some kind of twisted, demonic Battle Royale. 

"Right before I killed him," Sam says, quiet but strong. "Right before I killed his entire family and half of the ruling host of hell."

The demon smiles, says, "Ah, true, Set. But that was years ago and you haven't topped up, have you. All the power from the injections, all the extra strength you gathered from your fallen brothers and sisters, it's been fading over the years, Set, unless you've discovered what we did to you and took the initiative to do the same. And I doubt you'd feel it was worth the price." 

"Not worth the price," Sam agrees. "But that doesn't mean it's been fading." 

The demon's smile flickers and its eyes narrow. "Of course it does," it says, though it doesn't sound quite as sure of itself as it was a moment ago. 

One of the other demons steps forward, says, "You've always been a clever one, Set, quick to use that silver tongue of yours. Is that how you got the two at your sides to stay? Lies and flattery?" 

"Hardly," Leelah scoffs. 

"Ah," the third demon says. "Then it was your mouth, or your dick, or your ass. You always did show a _prodigious_ talent for activities of a more, shall we say, carnal nature." 

Dean's blood runs cold. "Are you -- Sam was _eleven_." 

The third demon smiles, cruel and pleased with its own cruelty. "And ten, and twelve, and thirteen, and fourteen. So precocious, our little Set. So quick to learn and eager to please. So _inventive_ with an imagination straight from the depths of hell." 

"I killed every single one that touched me," Sam says. He has to be shaken, has to be feeling _something_ , but Dean can't tell from the smooth timbre of Sam's voice. It's -- impressive, to say the least. "Surely you had better stories to tell?"

"Not that involved you," the first demon says, evidently have regained its confidence. "Our Set, who won the right to lead our army and who was once Sam Winchester, human son of the man who's hunted so many of our kin. Stories about you abound in hell and on the planes of this disgusting earth, Set. Our brethren boasted of how sweet you tasted and sounded and spread rumours of your body and soul both. There are a great many who yearn to see if those rumours are correct, if those boasts held any speck of truth." 

The second demon holds out one hand, says, "You have to be tired of running, Set. The wards on this island were a good challenge but we've proven ourselves over all the others who've tried to get to you. Come with us. Take your rightful place among us." 

"And what is my rightful place?" Sam asks. "Why am I so important that you'd waste years and dozens of your own kind to get me?"

The second demon takes one step closer to Sam, hand still outstretched, and says, softly, "Come with us, Set, and we'll tell you. We'll sate your curiosity and tell you everything you've ever wanted to know. Just take my hand, that's all you have to do, and leave this island with us." 

Dean growls, says, "He's not going anywhere with you sons of bitches," and aims the Colt, pulls the trigger before the demon can react. 

His aim is true; the bullet flies through the air, trailing golden shimmers behind it, and hits the demon's forehead. 

"Guns," the demon says. "Puny little human things." 

And then it explodes. 

\--

The acrid smell of ozone and flesh lingers in the air, even as Dean's aiming the Colt again. He shoots, but this time the demon he was aiming at darts out of the way and the bullet flies past its ear, embedding itself into a tree. 

"Samuel Colt's gun," the first demon spits out. "How touching. Seeking out weapons instead of depending on yourself, and using others to do your dirty work? You've lost your power and your strength of will both."

"Hardly," Sam says. He flicks his wrist and a rope of golden power emerges from his fingers, five tendrils woven together with hooks and barbs spiking out of the rope in uneven intervals. The third demon tries to move out of the way of the rope of magic but it follows the demon's host like a bloodhound and, soon enough, splits the host's chest apart as it reaches into the heart. 

Dean can only watch as the demon's eyes flash with golden electricity right before the host crumples to the ground, human and demon both dead. Once he can move, though, he turns to Sam and breathes out, "That was _so fucking cool_." 

Leelah, on the other side of Sam, snorts. "So fucking _hot_ , I think you mean, sugar. Watching the _buckruh_ take care of business always gets me wet." 

Dean was fourteen the first time he got hard at a graveside. He always thought there was something wrong with him but looking over at Leelah, he thinks maybe, just maybe, she'd understand. She catches him looking at her; she looks back, licks her lips and lets her eyes flick down to his crotch. He's half hard and more than ready to do something about it, but there's still one demon left. 

"You found a way around it, then," the first demon, the only demon left, says. It doesn't appear to be nervous, even now that it's all alone and it's clear that the three it's facing have found and possess more than one way to kill its kind. "Lilith shall be so very pleased to hear that you haven't wasted the gift we gave you." 

"Lilith will not be pleased to hear anything," Sam says, "because she's not _going_ to hear anything." 

The demon smirks, says, "Oh, I think she will. You see, Set, she's very keen on getting you under her thumb. You're going to be very useful in the future. She has a plan for you, one that you're all too ready to carry out." 

"And what plan is that?" Sam asks, head tilted to one side. "Azazel had a plan for me as well. He thought I was ready to lead an army of your kind but I disagreed. What's to say I don't disagree with Lilith and kill her for her assumption?" 

"If you want to find out," the demon says, "then you'll have to ask her. She's waiting for you, Sam Winchester, won't even lead you on a merry chase like the one you've lead us on all these years. No, Lilith's waiting. At _home_. She'll wait there as long as she needs to." 

With that, the host throws its head back and a plume of black smoke escapes the host's mouth, body of the human collapsing to the ground in a pile of charred skin and bone a moment later. The demon doesn't look back, doesn't pause as it spirals up into the air and dissipates into the sky. 

Dean's disappointed, thinks they could have made this three for three, but then the dome he'd forgotten about earlier glints in the sky. It lights up brighter than the sun and, a moment later, a crack of lightning crosses it. 

"And that makes three," Leelah says. "But I didn't get to kill nothing. Better save one for me next time, baby." 

"The lady's called dibs," Sam says. He looks at Dean, expression blank.

Sam's clearly waiting for something but Dean doesn't know what, so he just shrugs, grins wide and easy at his brother, and says, "I was taught never to argue with a lady." 

Leelah snorts, mutters something under her breath about not being any kind of lady and how she's more than ready to prove it. Dean ignores her, focuses on Sam, unsure where to go from here, is unclear on just what response Sam's waiting for. He tries to think, replays the conversation they've just had, and still can't figure it out. Next time, dibs, never argue -- it's pretty straightforward. 

"Oh, come on, baby," Leelah says, evidently as ready for this near stand-off to be finished as Dean is. "Whatever you wanna know, just ask 'im. Sugar here doesn't know how your mind works; no one does." 

Dean feels Sam's gaze scouring the edges of his soul. He shudders and that seems to break Sam out of whatever mood he's caught in. Sam shakes his head, smiles a little, and turns to Leelah. Dean hates that, wants all of Sam's attention back on him, needs it just as much now as he did when he was nine, maybe even more, but then he sees Sam and Leelah kissing, sees the way Sam's biting his way into her mouth, ripping into her bottom lip with his teeth and tonguing the blood. Instantly, just like that, Dean's hard, and he's not sure if it's from imagining Sam doing that to him or the breathy little noises Leelah's making, like all she can do is take it and she _likes_ it. 

Sam pushes Leelah backwards, doing something with a wave of gold shimmers that ensures they don't trip on the porch step, until her back slams against the front door. He takes her wrists and pulls her arms above her head, pinning her wrists to the door with magic. They kiss for a few more minutes that stretch out in Dean's mind; it's all he can do to watch without palming his cock through his jeans, and then Sam drops to his knees, practically tears Leelah's jeans off and buries his face between her thighs. 

She helps, hooking one leg around Sam's neck, supporting all of her weight on her other leg, and Sam must do something _more_ than right because she throws her head back, knocks it against the door, _hard_ , and says, "Oh, baby, come on, do that again, fuck." 

It doesn't take long before Leelah's panting out nonsense syllables. Dean can smell her from here, she has to be soaked, and then she's shaking, all the muscles in her body bowstring-taut before she groans through her teeth and says, "Oh, Sam, Sam, yeah, _baby_ , oh fuck." Dean remembers that tone of voice, that half-prayer, from last night and knows that she's coming. A moment later, an eternity later, she practically collapses, her knees giving way in post-climax relief. The only thing holding her up is the magic keeping her wrists above her head and firmly on the door. 

Her head lolls for a moment while she catches her breath, and then she looks at Dean, eyes heavy-lidded and smile languorous, sated. Dean can't help himself, not seeing the picture that she makes, and he stalks over to them, pulls Sam away from Leelah's body and then gets on his knees, licking her taste from Sam's face and then, when Sam's cheeks and chin are clean, delving his tongue into Sam's mouth.

"My boys," he hears Leelah say, but he can't focus on that, not when Sam's hands are on Dean's cheeks, holding him so softly, preciously, that Dean finally gets control of himself and pulls back, staring wide-eyed at his brother. 

His _brother_. 

"I have a big bed," Sam tells him, quietly. "The whole loft, really." 

"Pretty comfortable, too," Leelah adds. 

Sam flicks his wrist and the bonds holding Leelah flicker out of view. She slides down the door slowly until she's resting on her knees. She takes Dean's hand in one of hers before offering Sam her other hand. Sam grasps it, no hesitation, and Leelah's smile is bright enough that Dean thinks he might need sunglasses to look at her face. 

They look at him, the same question in both pairs of eyes, and Dean doesn't even need to take a mental step back and think. He knows what his answer is. "We should probably go back to the dock," Dean says, and then, as Sam's eyes are starting to close off and Leelah's smile is fading, he adds, "Tell your cousin not to wait up." 

Leelah laughs and Sam punches Dean in the arm before they fall into a three-way hug right there on the front porch of Sam's log cabin. Sam kisses Leelah and Dean watches, feels left out until Leelah breaks away from Sam and kisses Dean. She tastes of Sam's magic mixed with her own; Dean's head spins at how addictive that taste is and figures he's never going to get enough of it, of them. 

When they break apart, Dean looks at Sam and says, "We still have a lot to talk about." 

"I know," Sam says. "We will. We have time." 

"All the time in the world," Dean says. "But can we just." He stops, noses at Leelah's neck and bites down hard, sucks an imprint of his lips right onto her skin. His hand is on her stomach and, a moment later, as he's licking at the bruise, Sam's hand covers his and Sam marks Leelah on the other side of her neck. 

It's what Dean had been imagining before and Leelah looks at him as if she knows it, as if she's asking how she looks and if he's satisfied when she throws her hair back and stretches out her neck. 

Dean takes the sight of her in, the bruises darkening with every second that passes, and nods. There's no need to say anything and, besides, it feels like maybe another word would break this thing they have, this expectant silence between them.

The two Winchesters stand up, then pull Leelah up as well, and as the golden dome flickers out of existence above them and granny's wards repair themselves with another boom that startles the birds, they go inside.


	6. Postscript

Sunday morning, Dean gets behind the wheel of the Impala and takes out his phone. It's been off for the past couple days and he's not surprised to see a bevy of texts and voicemails from his dad when the phone finally boots up. He doesn't read any of his messages or listen to the voicemails, just ignores the little icons at the top of his screen in favour of calling his dad right away. 

"Tell me you got the book, Dean," John says. 

"It's safer where it is," Dean replies. He can hear his father working up to a good yelling, so before John can even get started, Dean says, "Dad, forget about the book for a second. I think you should come down here. There's someone you're gonna wanna see." 

John snorts, even through the phone; wherever John is, Dean knows his father's rolling his eyes. "I'm not driving across the country and into one of those old, godforsaken cities just to meet some girl you laid, Dean. Get the damn book and meet me in Missouri, like we planned." 

"It's not a girl," Dean says. "Dad, I really think." 

"Then what is it?" John asks, cutting Dean off. "Who is it? Who has apparently whammied you so hard that you're gonna leave that book with them? Whoever it is must be good if they've convinced you to try and get me down there, too. I ain't falling for it, son." 

Dean takes a deep breath, looks over at Leelah in the passenger seat, and when she nods, squeezes his thigh, Dean says, "It's Sam."

On the other end of the call, Dean can hear the tires squealing before the engine revs. 

"I'll be there in twenty-two hours," John says. "Don't let him out of your sight. You're sure it's. You're _positive_ it's your brother? That you've. That he's still. You're _sure_ , Dean." 

Dean looks in his rearview mirror and meets Sam's eyes, hazel with flecks of gold around the edges of his iris, and smiles. "Yeah," he says, as Sam reaches forward and wraps his hand around the back of Dean's neck. "Yeah, dad. It's really him."


End file.
